


in that dream there's no darkness

by more_than_melody



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Ishval Civil War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royai - Freeform, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/more_than_melody/pseuds/more_than_melody
Summary: Roy and Riza at Hughes' wedding."Do you ever dream about getting married, Riza?" he asks. Of course he would ask that, here, now with the sky spread out above them like brushed velvet and the scent of his cologne just the lightest tease in the air, eyes dark, holding her gaze with such gravitational pull as the moon.She gives him the fainest, bittersweet smile, her chest tightening."Not anymore," she says, because how could she?
Relationships: Gracia Hughes/Maes Hughes, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	in that dream there's no darkness

Song: Grown Ocean, by Fleet Foxes

_you would come to me then without answers_

_lick my wounds and remove my demands for now_

_eucalyptus and orange trees are blooming_

_in that dream there's no darkness a – looming_

_in that dream moving slow through the morning time_

* * *

The wedding is exactly what Riza expects.

She hardly expected an invitation, but it seems that that after serving on the same battlefield Maes Hughes considers her enough of a friend these days - if friend is really the right word for anyone you meet under such circumstances – or maybe not enough of his friends left the battlefield in one piece.

The alternative, that ~~Roy~~ Lieutenant Colonel Mustang had asked him to invite her, is something she tries not to dwell on.

“Thank you for coming,” Hughes says when she arrives. He's wearing his dress uniform and a nervous smile – two things she hasn't seen on him before.

“Of course,” she says, of course. It has been a long time since she had something worth celebrating – even her graduation from the academy a month prior had felt like a hollow achievement, six months after the conclusion of the war.

But she smiles anyway when he congratulates her on that too, and then she finds her seat.

 ~~Roy~~ Mustang spends the entire ceremony fidgeting. Thankfully, the smile on Maes' face is more than enough to draw the attention of the small audience so no one except her notices the best man as he tugs at his jacket, the seams on his pants, the buttons on the side of the uniform – she hasn't seen him this nervous since they were both young -

She might only be nineteen now, nearing twenty, but young is not a word that she feels she has a claim to any longer.

She is seated next to Maes' grandfather, at the back. Maes clearly did not inherit his good nature from his grandfather, who mutters under his breath through the entire ceremony about the folly of marriage, the folly of war, the folly of being stuffed into a suit two sizes too small. His fidgeting is nearly as bad as ~~Roy~~ Mustang's.

The ceremony is blessedly brief – a few lines spoken by the officiant, an exchanging of vows, of rings beneath an arch of flowers and nothing more. The weather is lovely and the flowers are heady and fragrant – it has been so long since she smelled anything like it – before she left for the academy possibly, the overgrown gardens from her childhood home.

She appreciates the simplicity of it all. In the aftermath of the war, anything too grand would feel out of place and even this is something Riza struggles to allow herself to enjoy.

Still – she tries, even as she tries not to pay so much attention to ~~Roy~~ Mustang. It has been ten days since she saw him last – only ten, although somehow it feels longer – at the end of her leave. Their leave, since he had taken it alongside her in order to fulfill the promise he made to her in Ishval.

Beneath the green blouse, beneath the waistband of the grey skirt – both Rebecca's, both borrowed – her burns are almost completely healed, thanks to him. That had seemed like more of an occasion to mark than her graduation. Of course she had graduated but now? Now she is free of the last traces of her childhood.

She glances over at Roy again.

Well, almost.

  
  


The reception is outdoors, the weather perfect. A tent is set up over the dance floor in the event of rain but the skies remain blessedly clear, even as the daylight fades and lanterns are lit. The countryside surrounding Central is lush and green this time of year, something she is still not quite used to.

At last the toasts are over and supper is finished and ~~Roy~~ Mustang abandons Maes to the dance floor and his new wife. Riza watches him make his way slowly across the room, talking briefly to several people who stopped him but clearly making a beeline towards where she sits.

He's taken off his long jacket leaving him in the button down he wears underneath, slightly damp with sweat – even in the evening summers here are still quite warm.

“May I?” he asks.

She appreciates that he asks, given everything. She glances down at his hands, cradling a glass of wine that he doesn't appear to have touched. Thinks of his hands, braced against her back in the dark as he traced the lines of her tattoo, trying to determine the best places to sear it.

As though in response to the memory her shoulder flares with sharp, phantom pain.

She rolls the shoulder, breathing deeply to alleviate it.

“Of course, Lieutenant Colonel,” she says.

They sit together at an empty table and ~~Roy~~ Mustang continues to fidget.

“I didn't see you arrive,” he says after a minute of silence.

“I got a ride early.”

“Of course.” He takes a sip of the wine, grimacing. He rolls the glass between his hands, picks at a spot on the tablecloth, adjusts his collar. He seems to be working himself up to say something, but doesn't. It sets her on edge.

Somehow Maes' grandfather was better company.

As though she has summoned him with her thoughts the old man appears before her.

“Young lady, would you care to dance with me?”

He pushes his glasses back up his nose and squints, his smile somewhat more like a grimace, but at least it's an attempt, which is more than ~~Roy~~ Mustang is making. She does not particularly want to dance but it is a better alternative than sitting here, watching him fiddle with the button on his cuff.

“Of course I would,” she says at the same time that ~~Roy~~ Mustang says

“Of course not!”

 ~~Roy~~ Mustang looks over at her in surprise, sitting up straight in his chair for the first time all evening.

The old man cackles.

“Better make your move first, next time,” he says.

 ~~Roy~~ Mustang scowls, puts down his glass of wine. He opens his mouth to speak but Riza cuts him off.

"Don't be belligerent," she chides him, before abandoning him to dance with the old man.

To say it is a dance was a stretch. Mostly she stands in place while the old man shuffles around, talking continuously – now that seemed to be a family trait. The more he talks the more he reminds her of her own grandfather – a man she barely knew, but was coming to know better.

The thought brings a smile to her face and the weight on her chest lessens slightly.

By the time she returns to the table where she left Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, his feet are up on the table and he is slouched so low his head is level with his knees.

“Please sit up, she says, taking her seat once more, smoothing the skirt over her knees. It isn't a question, and he grumbles as he returns his feet to the floor.

“Oh do stop mumbling,” she says. “I don't think Maes would like you sulking in a corner at his wedding.”

They both look out at the dance floor, where Maes is dancing with what Riza assumes is his niece. He is hunched over to reach her hands as she perches on his feet so they totter around in a circle. He grins broadly and there is no trace of the fear or loss or guilt that she feels so deeply.

“He looks so happy,” ~~Roy~~ Mustang says, and it startles her to hear him speak.

"Yes, he does." Appearances can be deceiving.

“How can he – how can he forget?” he asks, and Riza turns to him at the intensity of his voice. He is still focused in on Maes, a look of such despair on his face and fists clenched on his knees – in that moment, he looks so much like the boy she had known that she forgets to see the stains on his hands.

He feels the weight of guilt as heavily as she does.

“He doesn't,” she says at last. “But he is learning to live with it – and without it.” She looks back at Maes to find Gracia has joined him, willowy in her white dress, hair glittering in the light of the lanterns. Their smiles are extraordinary, blotting out the darkness for the moment. “He has someone to help him heal.”

They don't deserve that much, not healing, but coping, that's a different beast altogether -

“If you don't find a way to live with it you're not going to make it very far,” she says softly. “I saw plenty of soldiers end their own lives out there – don't be the next in that line, sir.”

His mouth twists and she's not sure if it's what she's said, or her use of _sir_ that does it.

“I just – I don't know how to do that.”

“Me either.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of her skirt, nails biting into her thighs. “But you promised me -” Her voice is even softer now. “You promised me we would do what we could to set this right. That means you have to find a way to live with it.”

“Riza -”

“Sir.”

He sighs heavily.

The light from the lanterns is almost magical, now that the sun has set, shadows stretching around the room, everything quietly luminescent. For a moment – surely she's allowed one moment of weakness after all this – she thinks it would be easier to release the burden on her chest if they could do it together.

The expression on his face when she looks over is unexpectedly tender, and she turns away abruptly, looking anywhere but at him. She can't take on his weight along with her own and he isn't ready – not really – to let anyone help. Neither is she. She has to believe that he will find some measure of peace on his own.

They sit there in silence for so long that she half expects him to get up and leave, to go get another glass of wine or perhaps something stronger, until he reaches out and takes her hand, palm warm and sweaty against hers.

“Sir -”

“It's just a dance,” he says, standing. There's a desperate note in his voice that he swallows.

It is just a dance.

She follows him to the floor, his hand on her back, warm but not burning, not this time. Not their first dance either, but those memories belong to someone else – a girl, back unmarked, unscarred, hands clean.

It feels strange at first but he is so completely focused on her that she finds it impossible to think of anything else, and soon relaxes – this should be easy, like breathing, for the two of them.

They always did have such perfect rhythm.

They dance until the musicians stop, packing up their equipment, and even then he does not release her hand until she prompts him, leaving his hand warm in the small of her back. She feels good – a little sweaty behind the knees, between her shoulders – certainly her palms. Not exertion in the same way that she feels when she leaves the gym but flushed and alive in a way she hasn't felt in so long.

Not like the cold sweat she wakes to in the middle of the night.

Around them, tables are being folded up, chairs stacked and loaded into the truck in which they arrived. The night air is warm, the tall grasses and hedges of flowers thick with the rasping of bugs, fireflies hovering. Most of the guests are leaving – she should call Rebecca, but she doesn't.

Her legs are tired.

“Let's sit,” she says, although she probably should send him away instead. In the weeks while her back healed they have discussed this – their future, whatever little of it might be left. As of last week, upon her return from leave, her assignment is official.

Still, he doesn't protest either.

They sit on the cement steps that lead out of the building, a hint of a breeze ghosting over her shoulders and arms. The rough cement catches at the fabric of her blouse, digs uncomfortably into her back when she leans against it so she leans forward instead.

Of course he notices – she can tell by the slight tightening of his mouth.

“It's not still hurting, is it?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. It's mostly the truth, the sliver of a lie a merciful one. Mostly it aches, the new skin tight and uncomfortable.

Overhead the sky is huge, stars bright even against the light of the city in the distance.

“You look lovely,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Don't get used to it,” she says, plucking at the skirt. She doesn't want to encourage him, to encourage _this._ Not because she does not want it – although, most days it barely feels like she knows her own self anymore, so how could she possibly know that? But because they can not possibly deserve it.

Not to mention other, more legal sorts of consequences.

“No?” His voice is gently teasing now and she lets out a sharp breath, trying to banish her frustrations.

“It's not mine.”

She hasn't worn anything like this since her father's funeral.

“Rebecca's?” he guesses.

“Mhmm.”

That morning, while Rebecca had sorted through her closet, looking for something that might fit reasonably well, everything she had put on had felt strange and uncomfortable after the months she had spent in the desert. With the evening winding to a close it has started to feel less foreign. Not right, yet, but something closer to it.

Like so many things in her life these days – not right, but something closer to it.

“It feels good to hear people laughing,” he says. The air is still thick with the sound, party guests making their way over the lawn towards waiting cars. It's better than music to her ears.

“It does,” she admits. It has been a while since she has really laughed – since either of them has, if she had to guess. “It's good to have something to celebrate.”

Maes and Gracia emerge from the building, Maes changed into civilian clothes, their hands intertwined. Roy jumps up, offering congratulations and good wishes in multitudes, as though trying to make up for all of the sulking he did earlier. It is only after they depart that he turns back to her, settling once more on the step beside her, a strange look on his face.

"Do you ever dream about getting married, Riza?" he asks. Of course he would ask that, here, now with the sky spread out above them like brushed velvet and the scent of his cologne just the lightest tease in the air, eyes dark, holding her gaze with such gravitational pull as the moon.

She gives him the faintest, bittersweet smile, her chest tightening.

"Not anymore," she says, because how could she? She hasn't considered it seriously since she was a child, and her parents both still alive, still something resembling a family, and happiness. And now? It is impossible to imagine.

He sighs, and she can almost hear the words he doesn't say. _I didn't mean to take that from you too._

 _You didn't_ , she thinks, and when she catches his eye he gives her a rueful smile, as though he knows exactly what she's thinking. There is more of that these days.

Like when he says _I'm never going to believe you when you say that,_ just with a tilt of the head and the slightest pinch of his brows.

“It's getting late,” he says out loud, saving her from whatever might have followed _that_ discussion. “And I am desperate to get out of this uniform and into something more comfortable.”

“I should call Rebecca,” she says.

“Would you like a ride back?” he asks, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. “No sense in her driving out here so late.”

She hesitates for just a second. There's almost no one left, now that Hughes and Gracia are gone – just the men taking down the tent in the field. Most of the exterior lights have been turned off as well, leaving them almost entirely in the dark. “I would appreciate it, sir,” she says.

She takes his hand.

Her knees protest as she stands. “One moment,” she says, but she doesn't let go, using him for balance as she slips off the heels Rebecca loaned her. Nothing ridiculous – they both know her limitations – but her feet are still protesting. The grass feels nice between her toes, cool on her skin.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

She nods.

“Shall we?”

Like that they make their way to his car, his jacket draped over one arm, her with her shoes in one hand, their elbows hooked together. The bushes are in full bloom, the air thick with their perfume as they pick their way down the drive. The ditch alongside them is thick with lightning bugs, the grass along the road not recently cut, brushing against her ankles.

He stops at the car but doesn't unlock it, dropping her arm.

“Sir?”

He just looks at her with those dark eyes. For a moment she is afraid he's going to say something else about weddings and she takes a deep breath -

He doesn't, thank God.

He doesn't use her first name either, which she is also grateful for.

“I'm glad you were here,” he says.

“Of course,” she says, letting out her breath in a sigh of relief.

He hesitates, toying with the keys and his breath catches, as though the words are stuck in his throat.

“Not just tonight, either,” he says at last.

She thinks she understands. It is a selfish thing but she has thought it in weaker moments too – she is not glad, exactly – no, definitely not that - that he has been there for the darkest parts of her life. But she can't imagine not having someone else who understands.

“I know.” Her voice is soft and in the darkness the words come a little easier. She places her hand on his shoulder and some of the tension leaves him.

“Thank you,” he says.  
 _For what?_ she asks with a tilt of her head. He smiles.

“For always knowing the right thing to say.”

She smiles too and the expression feels - well, not right, but something closer to it.

  
  


  
  



End file.
